


The Tiny Courageous

by Jerevinan



Series: Take to the Skies [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Adoption, Brotherhood, Character Death, Childhood, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Ignis, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, adoption fic, airship au, kid prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-23 10:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13188477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jerevinan/pseuds/Jerevinan
Summary: Prompto was an abandoned child starving in Cartanica when Algernon Scientia, Ignis’ uncle, caught him stealing their food. Algernon adopts Prompto and raises him alongside Ignis. The boys quickly form a brotherly bond, dreaming of building and flying a commercial airship together one day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel sidestory fic to [Travelers in the Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11705223). It doesn't matter if you read it first or second, since this is a backstory on how Ignis and Prompto met and became brothers. 
> 
> The title comes from a line in the song "Who Would Have Thought" by Darren Hayes.

Cartanica is quiet, covered in a sheet of thin frost from the night before. Storm clouds above promise more; Prompto can make out tiny snowflakes shimmying in the air.

He huddles against the side of a building to block the incoming mountain wind. There aren’t many people on the platform. The aerodrome is even more vacant. No crowds to blend in with, and the guards now recognize his face. Local businesses won’t let him out of the cold, either—they don’t want anyone who isn’t a patron in their shops and restaurants.

Prompto is dizzy from lack of food. He managed to steal a roll from a food cart along with a handful of ketchup packets the night before. Condiments give him more bellyaches than sustenance, but that didn’t stop him from sucking the ketchup out between bites of his bread.

It’s been like this for so many days he lost count. He can slip in and out of the station and use the bathroom, scrub out some of his clothes, and drink water from the sinks. He sleeps behind a construction site and leaves before the workers arrive. But when will his parents come back? He can’t remember the name of his hometown. 

If only he hadn’t cried on the train because he was hungry, maybe his mother wouldn’t have snapped and left him here. Why did his father tell him to sit on a bench and wait, only to never return?

Prompto burrows further into his coat, but that doesn’t keep the cold out. It nips at his skin. His belly rumbles, his tears freezing the skin around his eyes.

When another train pulls in, Prompto stands and edges near the station. Trash cans and crates make for good cover while he spies on the passengers. One man holds a child’s hand as they cross the slick cement. They scurry into one of the trains that has been modeled into an eatery.

Prompto slips in behind them, using the crowd as coverage. The staff there have learned to recognize his face, so he ducks into the restroom and waits. The minutes crawl by. Twenty minutes that pass for anyone else are an eternity for the little boy. He’s relieved when he sees tables start to clear as people go to pay or make bathroom stops. Prompto sneaks through the small crowd and pockets half-eaten rolls, butter containers, leftover chicken nuggets—anything people have left behind.

As he plucks a half-eaten burger from a plate and stashes a handful of fries into a napkin, a shadow falls over him. 

He holds his breath and stares up.

The face isn’t unkind despite the man’s frown. Prompto doesn’t know what might come next—some people are quick to slap him, others let him take what he wants since they’re disposing of their meal anyway.

“My nephew wasn’t finished with his lunch,” says the man.

“Oh.” Prompto takes the food from his pocket and drops it back down as quickly as he can, but before he can make his escape, a hand clamps around his arm. It isn’t hard, but the grip is firm enough to keep him in place. He braces for a cuff at the back of his skull.

It doesn’t come.

The man kneels beside Prompto, his grip loosening—not enough for Prompto to make a successful getaway, but fingers no longer dig into his arm. The stranger’s eyes are gentle behind his glasses.

“What’s your name?”

“Prompto…”

“Mine’s Algernon. Do you have parents? Where are they?”

Prompto nods. Two of them, once. He explains what happened—that his mother was upset with him for complaining about how tired and hungry he was on the train, and how his father told him to sit on a bench near the station and wait. How it got dark and they haven’t come back since.

Algernon doesn’t answer for a while, but his face shows a mixture of emotions. Some of them are hard for Prompto to read, but he can tell when someone is angry. Not only is Algernon furious, he seems almost sad. But why would some man be sad after what Prompto told him?

“Are you hungry?”

Prompto nods.

“Of course you are, Prompto.” Algernon straightens up and gestures toward the bench. “Here, come sit down. I’ll order you something to eat. Scoot over against the wall so Ignis can sit next to you.”

Ignis?

Prompto has often dreamed of the moment someone offers to buy him a meal. Now that someone has, he doesn’t know what to do. The desire to flee is strong. No one has ever extended kindness to him, and why would they do so now? What do they want with him? Wanting to trust someone and actually doing so are different, and he’s discovering that as he slides into the bench and inches closer to the wall. He shrinks into the corner. The weight—the burden—of the stolen morsels in his pocket squish. He hopes none of the butter packets break.

Algernon sits across from him and hands him a menu. “Pick something. Oh, there’s Ignis. Maybe he got the ketchup out of his shirt finally.”

Ignis returns. There’s a wet spot on the front of his blue shirt, traces of red still clinging to the fabric. He’s a beansprout of a boy who looks only a little older than Prompto. He stares in surprise at Prompto through his glasses.

“This is Prompto,” says Algernon. “Prompto, this is my nephew, Ignis. Come on, sit down.”

Ignis doesn’t question why Prompto is there or express any disgust. He’s still in shock, but he sits down in the booth without objection. As he reaches for his food, Algernon grabs the edge of his plate and scoots it out of reach.

“Prompto pocketed your food earlier. Poor fellow is hungry. He tried to give it back, but I think we ought to order you something fresh.” Algernon winks at Prompto.

“Can I skip to dessert?” asks Ignis.

“Oh, what would you like to have?”

“Cake.”

“All right, I’ll order you a slice of cake. Pick out what kind from the menu when Prompto finishes with it.” Algernon gestures toward the neglected menu.

Prompto scoops it up and skims through his options. Everything sounds delicious, so long as it doesn’t have any ketchup—after those packets, it might be a while before he can stomach any condiment that isn’t butter for his bread. He considers the food sitting in his pockets. He’ll need those for later. Maybe he can have something different.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have anything at all. If he’s needy, this kind man will be frustrated with him and throw him out. He wants to cry instead.

Cry he does.

Algernon gathers up a handful of napkins and leans across the table to press one to Prompto’s nose. 

“Blow,” he instructs, and Prompto obeys. “There you go. It must be overwhelming for you right now after all you’ve been through.”

“But it’s my fault!” Prompto sniffs. “I was bad.”

“Nonsense. Everyone gets hungry and tired. Even I do.” Algernon folds the napkin and offers it again. “Blow again. Yes, there you go. Get it all out.” 

Once Prompto calms down, Algernon steeples his hands together, elbows on table, and waits for an answer. Prompto flips through the menu, reading one choice after another. 

“You can have anything you want,” says Algernon.

“Pot roast, please?” The thought of potatoes, gravy, and peas with meat makes his mouth water.

“Can we have hot chocolate?” asks Ignis.

“Yes, you may. Do you want hot chocolate, Prompto?”

Prompto nods. A server is summoned over and told their choices, and Algernon orders a piece of apple pie for himself. While they wait, Prompto is given a glass of water. It’s clean and refreshing—it doesn’t have the strange metallic taste the stuff from the bathroom sinks carries in it.

The food is hot and steaming when it arrives. Each careful bite warms his belly. After only a few morsels, though, he finds that he is no longer hungry. An acidic feeling rises in the back of his throat, and he can’t eat another bite.

As he struggles, not wanting to seem ungrateful, his eyes water.

“You can pack it up and save it for later,” says Algernon. His voice doesn’t have any of mother’s frustration or father’s threat in it. “It’s been a while since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?”

Prompto sniffles and nods. 

“That’s not your fault. We’ll pack it away so you can eat it later.”

“Thank you.”

When the meal is paid for and Prompto’s leftovers are placed in a little box for later, he tries to think of some other way to show how grateful he is to this kind man. They linger by the table, all three standing around as Ignis and Algernon pull on their coats and gloves. 

“Do you have gloves, Prompto?”

A shake of the head.

“Let’s get you a pair.”

“You already—”

“Fed you? Yes, I know. Prompto, can I ask you how old you are?” Algernon kneels beside him, his smile kind. The sort of thing Prompto always wanted from a parent when he imagined the perfect one. 

“Six.”

“Ignis here is almost eight. Turns eight next month.” Algernon nods toward his nephew. “I’m taking care of him. Don’t you think someone should look after you, too?”

Prompto doesn’t answer, but his heart is screaming for one word, one action. He wants to throw himself into Algernon’s arms and beg him to take him along. A meal and gloves are more than anyone else has offered, though, and wishing for more would make him selfish. 

He follows Algernon into the elevator that leads down to the main heart of the town—and to the nearest general store. Prompto will pick out the cheapest gloves he can find, and then he’ll have to say goodbye. His heart isn’t ready for it, and the thought makes him want to cry again.

~*~

Prompto doesn’t realize until Algernon is halfway up the steps to the building that they’ve arrived at the police station. He halts on the sidewalk. All that kindness was for nothing. He wears new black gloves that clutch a box of pot roast, and he can’t believe how stupid he has been.

Algernon will turn him in for going too far, for taking too much.

“Prompto, what’s wrong?” Algernon rushes back to his side.

Prompto can’t move his legs. They’ve seized up beneath him, and if he tries to move, he is sure he’ll collapse. 

“Are you scared of the police?”

Prompto thrusts out the box of leftovers. “I’m sorry I took your food!” He thinks of the contraband smashed in his coat pockets. When they search him, they’ll find everything and put him away for even longer. They might even execute him.

“Oh.” Algernon’s face grows serious, but he places both hands over Prompto’s. They’re gentle and warm. “Prompto, I’m not here for that. It’s not because you’re in trouble. I’m here to figure out how I can take you with me—if that’s all right with you. You shouldn’t be out on your own like this. Someone needs to be there to make sure you have all the food and gloves you need.”

It takes a moment to process those words, and even after he does, Prompto isn’t sure he heard the man right. Algernon _wants him_. No. No one wants Prompto.

He starts to cry, losing his grip on the pot roast. Algernon manages to catch it in time and hand it over to Ignis before catching Prompto in his arms. The embrace is returned, and Prompto’s feet leave the ground as he’s lifted and carried into the station. A hand rubs his back, a soothing voice offering reassurances with each step.

The police ask so many questions. Some of them Prompto can’t answer. He knows his last name, yes. He can recall his parents names, too—what they would call each other by. Does he know where they lived? No, not the town, not the address. 

The questions wrench him apart, but Algernon sits in the chair beside him, drawing him close against his side, so that he’s not alone. 

“I take it you’re interested in adopting him, once we find out what happened with his parents?” asks one of the officers.

Algernon nods.

“There’s a chance this all might be an accident, and they’re looking for him.”

Prompto doesn’t know how to feel about that. He sometimes used to dream that someone like Algernon would pull up in front of his old house and say they were his real parent so he could be taken away, back when he still lived with his mother and father. But he always wanted his parents to love him, too, for them to be a happy family.

“If he’s safe and taken care of, then I’ll be happy,” says Algernon. “But I don’t know how anyone could lose a child and not report them missing. Where will he go until you find his parents?”

The police officer shrugs. “I’ll contact social services. They’ll figure it out.”

“Please let me take him. I can arrange to stay in town a little longer, once I speak with my employer. Don’t send him to a children’s home.”

“That’s not up to me.”

Prompto clings to Algernon’s jacket. He doesn’t want to be taken away from this kind man and put in a home with strangers. No one ever thought to do this much for him in the time he has been out on the streets. Police seldom cast him a glance, or they would look away as soon as they saw him. No one wanted to help him before.

And now they might take him away from the one person who does?

“Why can’t I go with you?” Prompto whimpers.

“I am trying to do this through legal channels. I’m sorry, Prompto.” A soothing palm rubs circles along his back.

When the woman from the children’s home arrives, she’s far kinder than the cold police officer. She asks Prompto what he would like to do. She sits beside him and talks slowly, her voice and smile soft. 

“If you’re willing to stay in town until we can sort out the paperwork, all you need to do is fill out some forms and tell us where you’re staying. We need to know where our wards are at all times, and Prompto will be no exception. It would also be helpful to supply us with a list of references—people who can assure us we’re not placing a child in your care when you would be ill-suited to it.”

Algernon separates for a little while to make some arrangements at a nearby hotel so he can give the address and room number to the lady. Ignis takes his uncle’s seat and shows Prompto his card deck and how to play a simple game with them. Ignis, Prompto decides, is also nice—much like his uncle, but quieter. 

“Do you like living with Algernon?” asks Prompto as he sifts through his cards. He’s sitting on the bench sideways, one ankle tucked under his other knee, his opposite leg swinging. “Is he as nice as he seems?”

Ignis adjusts his glasses. “Sometimes I miss my parents, but Uncle Algernon is nice.”

“Oh.” That’s good, then—maybe Algernon won’t throw Prompto away immediately. Prompto doesn’t know how to read people well. His parents had been difficult to understand. One minute his mother would hug him, the next she would berate him. 

The thought makes his stomach churn. The food in it doesn’t help. He hasn’t eaten that much in a long time.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” Prompto drops his cards on the bench and hurries to the public restroom. Tears well in his eyes. 

His life on the streets is coming to an end—as he had always hoped it would—but instead of being happy, he’s a mix of emotions he doesn’t understand and doesn’t know where to put. All he can do is cry in a stall.

He’s ashamed. Why does he always have to be such a baby? How could anyone love a terrible little boy like him?

~*~

“But I don’t need a bath.”

Prompto sniffs at his clothes. All right, maybe he smells a _little_ bit, but that’s probably his clothing. He doesn’t know what to do with dirty laundry. He remembers to wash his hands when they get visibly dirty, too, and to clean his hair when it starts to feel greasy. 

Algernon raises an eyebrow. “Prompto, please. You’re filthy. If you want to wear the pajamas we bought you, you should take a bath first. They’ll be out of the dryer soon.”

The pajamas are amazing. The’re soft and fuzzy with little chocobos printed on them. Algernon took him shopping at a store in Cartanica before they checked into their hotel reservations.

“I’m too tired for a bath.” 

“Yes, it was a busy day,” agrees Algernon. “But a bath will be soothing before you go to bed. Don’t you think?”

It’s at the tip of his tongue to protest. Prompto would rather take a bath in the morning, after a long night’s rest. But if he misbehaves, Algernon might change his mind about adopting him.

Prompto nods. 

“Would you mind if Ignis takes a bath with you?” Algernon glances at Ignis. “Would that bother you? You could help him wash his hair.”

Ignis slides off the bed, hand outstretched to Prompto. For a minute, Prompto stares at it. Not having to wash his own hair doesn’t sound like a bad idea. He reaches out and takes it, and Ignis tugs him into the bathroom.

Once they’ve undressed and lowered into the water, Prompto hugs his knees to his chest. The water is hot, but not enough to scald him. It seeps into his aching bones. 

“Tilt your head back,” Ignis says as he pops open a bottle of shampoo. It’s so tiny—not at all like the bottles Prompto remembers back when he had a home.

“It’s so small!” 

“It’s from the hotel.” Ignis grins. “Turn around and lean back.” 

Ignis’ fingertips rub gently against his scalp as he lathers the shampoo into Prompto’s hair. The strands are more than a little greasy, so limp and dull that they’ve been weighing on Prompto. It’s been too cold out to wash it often. All he can do is run warm water through it and sit by the radiator, and he doesn’t like sitting in the public restroom at the station for too long.

Having a bath makes him sleepy. When they finish, Ignis towels off his hair, rubbing it in soothing circles while Prompto closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember putting on his pajamas. They’re already on when he wakes up the following morning in a big bed next to Ignis. 

The room isn’t familiar. This isn’t one of his favorite hiding spaces near the station. He’s surrounded by softness and warmth. 

Ignis stirs next to him. Right. He met Algernon the day before. They went to a hotel. Ignis is the man’s nephew.

Prompto slides out of bed and pads to the bathroom. Someone was kind enough to put socks on his feet, and it kept him from getting cold in the night. The bathroom light is on, but the door is open. 

Algernon glances over. His face is covered in white cream, like someone shoved whipped topping on his face. Prompto backs away.

“Good morning, Prompto!” Algernon’s voice is full of cheer.

“Mornin’…”

“Give me a few seconds and I’ll be out. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Anything is good.”

Algernon leans in toward the mirror and runs his razor across the skin of his jaw and neck. He rinses it off in the sink before he answers. “We’ll head to a diner once Ignis wakes up. He’s an early riser, so it shouldn’t be too long. Yesterday was a bit tiring for both of you.”

“And you.”

Algernon chuckles. “Yes, me too.”

Once he’s done rinsing his face, he reaches over and pats Prompto on the head. It’s a nice feeling, having his hair ruffled.

“Your hair is soft and yellow,” says Algernon. “It looked much darker until your bath! Now it’s shiny.”

Prompto grins and reaches up to his tiptoes to stare into the mirror over the sink. He’s missing a baby tooth—he remembers crying in the snow when it came out while eating hard bread only a few days ago. He lost a few while still living with his parents. He sticks a finger in the gap.

“I’ll wake up Ignis, and then we can all get ready to go to breakfast.” Algernon is in a cheerful mood as he steps out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Prompto obeys quickly, not wanting to challenge Algernon’s good mood by being slow. He reaches for his toothbrush. It’ll still be his tomorrow if he doesn’t screw it up. All he has to do is behave. If he can manage that, perhaps Algernon will keep him longer than his parents did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, I should probably warn that there are hints of past child neglect and abuse in this story? If that troubles you, please keep your health in mind and proceed no further!
> 
> Prompto's having some difficulties trusting that things are really better, because... Well, trauma does that sometimes. :(

Insomnia is a big city with skyscrapers clustered in the distant center, small airships breezing their way overhead on invisible roadways. Prompto presses his nose and palms to the glass and watches them from the train before it pulls into the station.

A sky cab waits for them. Prompto hesitates with one foot across the threshold while Algernon holds his hand.

“It’s all right,” says the man soothingly, and Prompto tiptoes his way onto the vessel with a squeak.

When it begins its flight to the residential district, Prompto yelps and squeezes into Algernon’s arms. When they don’t die from falling straight to the ground, he lifts his head. His gaze turns toward the windows, and he inches closer in his seat until he’s staring out the glass at everything below them.

They float over lower buildings and past windows. The vessel doesn’t shift much—no worse than a train—and doesn’t collide with any others. A feeling of freedom swells through him. The world is different from the apartment where he suffocated in disapproval and anger, more fascinating than the cold of the Niflheim frontier. 

The disappointment drops to his stomach when the craft reaches its destination and stops. Algernon hands him his suitcase as the other passengers filter off. It isn’t much—a bright blue canvas case patterned with cartoon chocobos and filled with clothes and toiletries and a set of cards that are all his own. Algernon has promised him toys when they settle in at home.

Home. _His_ home. He has been Prompto Scientia for two weeks since the adoption papers went through. Algernon waited and scheduled his work around the process. It took almost seven weeks to sort out the details, including immigration and parental rights. Prompto’s parents surrendered him on paper as if he was nothing. It still stings, and sometimes he will sob about it in the shower while the water drowns out his voice or weep as he’s falling asleep. Always somewhere no one sees how much pain he is in, and how ungrateful he must be for not being happy enough. 

Algernon says some people were never meant to be parents, but every child matters. 

Prompto isn’t sure if he matters, but he is beginning to feel like he does. No one yells at him or shoves him away. Sometimes he lets his belly rumble without complaint—otherwise Algernon might reconsider this adoption—but his new guardian always hears and says it’s time to eat. 

He doesn’t even get in trouble for showing excitement during their travels.

“That was so much fun! Can we ride this again?” Prompto slides the sole of his shoe across the industrial carpet of the sky cab.

“Of course.” Algernon finishes taking down the rest of the cases and herds them toward the door. “We’re not too far from home now.”

A fear grips Prompto. It’s irrational, but with so many disappointments in life, he doesn’t fully trust that this isn’t a dream. He’s afraid he’ll wake up and be back in land laced with frost, eating ketchup packets and half-eaten rolls. 

Ignis holds his hand as they step off the cab onto the sidewalk. The new family takes a stroll past corner shops and chocolatiers and bakeries, until the storefront windows change to apartments. Algernon opens a gate with a code and leads them into a luxurious building.

Prompto’s shoes—new, but now adorning several scraps and stains on the soles—clip against the cream and gray marbled floors. They pass a lobby to an elevator and take it up to the eleventh floor. 

Prompto thinks it’ll be a tiny place, not dissimilar to the family home he spent his first six years in, but when Algernon opens the doors, Prompto gasps.

The foyer is bigger than his old bedroom. He follows Ignis’ example and sheds his coat, shoes, and accessories, tucking them and hanging them where his new brother indicates. There are two steps up that lead into a living room. 

Ignis leads the tour, tugging Prompto from room to room by the hand. There is a breakfast nook in the kitchen, along with a dining room. Beyond that lies the library—filled with “Mother’s old books,” according to Algernon. 

“You can have her room, once I’ve bought you a bed and fixed it up,” says Algernon, tapping on a door in the wide hallway. “I’m afraid it’s dreary right now. Ignis, would you mind sharing for a few days?”

“I don’t mind!”

“No staying up late,” says Algernon, who has had to remind the boys to settle down a few times during their stays at inns and in train cabins. Prompto enjoys listening to Ignis read, and they’re always reluctant to go to bed when their heads are filled with adventure.

“We’ll be good,” promises Ignis.

“Really good!” agrees Prompto.

Algernon chuckles. “Of course you are, but maybe less reading before bedtime.”

Ignis’ room is special. There are a few toys that have been retired to the shelves, some stuffed animals that hang in a net above the bed or are lined along the pillows. A bookshelf is overcrowded but neatly arranged with well-loved books. Little paper stars hang from the ceiling on thread. 

Algernon gathers blankets from a hall closet and sets them at the end of Ignis’ bed, along with a pillow already tucked inside a case. 

“There you are,” he says, reaching over to ruffle Prompto’s hair. “How do you like the place?”

“It’s big. And nice.” It smells like sugar cookies and the pages of old books. It’s more home than his last one ever could be.

Prompto hurries over and hugs Algernon, burrowing against his new guardian’s cardigan. 

“Thank you,” he whispers for the hundredth time in the past three weeks.

“You’re welcome, always,” reassures Algernon, returning his embrace.

~*~

Prompto fidgets in class. He can’t focus on his worksheet, despite that the teacher has scolded him numerous times already. The words are blurry and he can’t make them out. He has been in school for less than a week, and he senses his teacher doesn’t like him. He doesn’t get the feeling _anyone_ does. The other students avoid him when he approaches them at recess. 

In the hallway the day before, he thought he overheard one of the staff mumble “Niff” (and it had to be a staff member, because his birth country is only known on paper and Algernon said to keep his origins unknown), but he didn’t tell Algernon. He doesn’t plan to tell anyone. When he meets up with Ignis and Algernon after school every day, he tries to forget the trials of each lesson and the loneliness he feels. He doesn’t want his new family to know how much he doesn’t fit in. They’ve done so much for him. Ignis treats him like a friend, telling him jokes and playing games with him.

He even has toys now. Some are ones Ignis has passed over to him, others are ones Algernon bought for him. He wants to reads books from “Nan’s” library—although Algernon’s mother passed away some time ago, she left her reading materials to peruse at anyone’s leisure. But those are as indecipherable as the worksheets sitting on his desk.

“Prompto.” The teacher’s voice is sharp, and the other students snap their heads toward the source of the noise. She taps at his worksheets. “Focus.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Her eyes narrow. 

“The words are hard to read. Blurry.”

Her gaze softens, but not enough to make him comfortable. “I think I should have a talk with your father.”

“Please don’t! I’m sorry!” Prompto pleads, clutching his pencil so hard it snaps. 

Five minutes later, he’s sitting in the office. His teacher says she’s worried he’s a “problem” and doesn’t want him there if he’s going to be violent enough to snap pencils. A nasty feeling sinks into Prompto’s gut. Algernon will be upset with him. So far, he’s only scolded him a few times, but what if this is it? What if he decides Prompto is too undisciplined? It could mean—at worst—that he sends him away. At best, he’ll beat him and send him to his room without meals for a week. No, Algernon would never.

But he _might_.

It is a long wait until the end of the day. Ignis is brought to the office by his teacher while they wait on one of the staff members to summon Algernon inside. Ignis sits on the bench beside Prompto and takes his hand.

“What happened?” whispers Ignis.

“I couldn’t read. When I told the teacher, she said she wanted to talk to Algernon, and I begged her not to! And then I snapped a penc—”

“Quiet.” The secretary behind the nearby desk frowns at them. “When one child is in trouble, you do not speak to him, Ignis.”

“But it’s afterschool,” says Ignis. “And he’s my brother.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. Until your guardian is here to pick you up, you’ll both be silent.”

Ignis drops his gaze, and Prompto holds in tears. If he wasn’t such a problem, Ignis wouldn’t have been reprimanded. Algernon will surely hate him for that, if nothing else.

They don’t wait long in reality, but as small children, even a few minutes passes like an eternity. When Algernon is led into the office, he smiles at them. Prompto pulls his gaze away. No one must have told him what happened yet. When he finds out…

“Your son needs corrective lenses,” says Prompto’s teacher. “But he broke a pencil when I said I needed to speak with you.”

Algernon raises an eyebrow. “Broke a pencil? Are you sure?”

The teacher reaches into her work apron and pulls out the two halves. “He begged me not to talk to you.”

“He must have been worried.”

A pause. “I don’t want my other students getting the wrong idea. They might all start snapping pencils when I say something they disagree with. And what would be next? Throwing them?”

“I think you’re being a little harsh…”

The principal steps out and gestures to them to come inside his office. The door clicks, and Prompto and Ignis exchange concerned looks. 

Prompto shakes. He can’t help it—if he cries, they’ll think he’s trying to get attention. What if he is thrown out of school before he even has the chance to go? He huddles as small as he can within his chair, hugging his torso. He wishes he could ask Ignis questions and seek comfort, but the receptionist checks on them between filling forms and stamping papers. All he wants to know is what kind of punishment to expect or where he might be taken when Algernon decides he’s sick of having an extra child in his care.

It isn’t long before Algernon hurries out, his mouth set in a grim line. 

“Come along, boys,” he says, and something about his tone holds a temper Prompto has never seen before. He’s too scared to disobey or cry, so he follows behind Algernon and Ignis out of the school. Algernon brings them to their usual cab stop.

“I’m sorry, Algernon,” says Prompto, and he can already feel the flood of tears, the ache of a hungry belly, and the icy kiss of snow against his skin. “Please don’t send me back.”

“I’m not sending you back.” Algernon kneels beside him, latching onto one of his arms. His voice is soft. “No, Prompto, I would never send you back.”

“Are you going to hit me?” Prompto raises his head and braces. “I know I deserve it.”

“What? No, no, Prompto…” Algernon gathers him up in his arms. 

The strength Prompto needed to keep in his cries breaks, and he wails. It draws the attention of other people. 

“Oh my, I guess we’re not going on the cab yet. We’d disturb the other passengers.” 

Algernon takes him on a walk around the neighborhood. It helps to be held and carried to have a large palm rubbing circles on his back. He soaks the man’s shoulder with tears and rests limply against him, too tired and defeated by the day’s event to think.

“Prompto, whatever happened to you before you were adopted, you won’t go through it again under my watch. The school was wrong for how they’ve treated you. Had I known, I could have done something to prevent this. They’ve only helped in one regard, because it does sound like you need glasses.”

“But I broke a pencil.”

Algernon laughs softly. “I’ve broken several. Sat on them, used them too hard, had them break in my school bag. You didn’t do it in anger, did you? You panicked.”

“Uh huh.” Prompto swipes at his tears with a fist. 

“I didn’t know you had trouble with your eyesight. You’ll probably wear glasses, just like me and Ignis.”

Prompto turns to look down at Ignis, who grins at him.

“It’s not so bad,” Ignis promises.

~*~

It _isn’t_ so bad. Prompto tries on several pairs until he settles on glasses with blue plastic rims. It takes a week before the prescription arrives, but his vision improves as soon as he puts them on. It turns out he has even worse eyesight than Ignis. 

Algernon has taken him out of school since then and hired a tutor. He studies with Ignis in the family library during school hours, although each has different coursework. Ignis is not only grades ahead of Prompto, he’s ahead of his peers. 

Prompto uses this opportunity to look at Nan’s old books, too. He isn’t great at reading—his former teachers back in Nifelheim taught him, so he knows how. But the words used to be hard for him without corrective lenses, making him a little more behind than other children his age. The images in the manuals make more sense to him. He sees how people built communicators and other devices, and his mind begins trying to put together the parts. 

For his seventh birthday, he wants a tool set. After weeks of Algernon pestering him to come up with something—and sprinkling in reassurance that it’s okay to ask for things—he finally comes to a decision.

“Tools?” Algernon sits in his favorite battered chair in the living room with the paper open. He glances over at Prompto. “What sort?”

“Like…hammers. Screwdrivers.”

“A good start! Do you want to build things?”

“Yes!”

Algernon folds the paper and gestures for Prompto to come sit on his lap. Once he’s pulled into his embrace, he begins rattling off questions. What does Prompto want to build? Would he like scrap parts, or would he prefer fresh wood to build something? 

“What do you want to do on your birthday?” 

That is the hardest question of all. Prompto has never had a birthday party. He has to keep asking Algernon the date it happens, and they only know because of all the legal documentation drawn up during the adoption. 

Algernon brushes some of Prompto’s bangs out from over his glasses and hums gently. “I think I have an idea. Can I surprise you?”

Prompto nods and snuggles closer. He was nervous at first about how often he hugged his new guardian, but Algernon welcomes his affections. Algernon even asked recently if he could give him a kiss on the forehead when he tucked him into bed every night. Prompto agreed to it as shyly as he does this birthday surprise. 

For the next two weeks, he doesn’t shut up about it. He tries to pry information out of Ignis during one of their lessons until the tutor forces him to sit at the farthest end of the table from Ignis instead of beside him. He asks during their occasional nightly baths and when they’re kneeling on the floor of one of the bedrooms, playing cards.

“I don’t know, Uncle hasn’t told me.”

“Do you think I’ll get a cake?”

“You’re supposed to have a cake on your birthday.”

“But I’ve never had a cake on my birthday.”

“Then you should have seven of them. One for every year.”

“That’s a bit excessive,” says Algernon from the doorway of Ignis’ bedroom. “Ignis loves cake, don’t mind him. But I’ll make sure to get you a special cake—a big one.”

“It doesn’t have to be big,” says Prompto, who would be grateful if Algernon served him mashed potatoes with seven candles. 

Algernon only smiles. “You’ll see.”

~*~

“Can I look yet?”

Prompto keeps his hands cupped over his eyes as promised, but the excitement makes him bounce on his heels.

Algernon removes the ear muffs over his head and nudges him forward. “Okay, open them.”

Prompto lowers his arms, and once he reads the sign above the barn, he lets out a pleased scream of delight before trapping Algernon in a hug. Chocobos! He has only ever seen cartoons and prints of chocobos, never the real animal. But there they are, feathery and yellow and regal. Their soft “kweh” sounds fill his ears. Chocobos explain the strange smell—a mixture of feed and hay, along with an unfamiliar stench. 

“Can I ride one?” Prompto is so excited his voice only comes out a whisper.

“That’s what we’re here for, Prompto. Happy Birthday.”

There is a pen set up for children to ride the chocobos, separate from the open acres of manicured grass where adults and teenagers can race one another and hop over hurdles. The chocobos circle through a pen with an employee leading them by the reigns. Prompto sits atop Colette, a yellow chocobo who lets him stroke her soft feathers and takes little bits of fruit out of his palm. He adores her immediately.

“I love chocobos,” he shouts excitedly when he is lifted off of Colette and set on the ground next to Algernon. “I want a chocobo. I want a million chocobos.”

“I’m afraid they can’t fit in the apartment,” teases Algernon. He kneels down next to Prompto. “But I did spot some cute chocobo items in the gift shop window when we first entered. We’ll have a look when Ignis finishes his ride.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to say—his first impulse is to refuse, because Algernon has already given him so much. Ignis confirmed that morning that there would be a cake and presents, and the visit to the chocobo stables on its own is enough to make up for every birthday Prompto has never had. What does he do for Algernon in return but cause him difficulty? Algernon always has to adjust his life and schedule for his children. He claims he doesn’t mind, but Prompto still sometimes wonders if he’ll be carted back to Niflheim for the one transgression that will finally make Algernon snap.

But as Algernon holds his hand and waits for Ignis to join them, Prompto feels like he’s where he belongs. It’s a scary thought when he knows it might be taken away suddenly, but it makes him happier than he has ever been. 

Ignis climbs off his chocobo a few minutes later, his fingers lingering on the reigns. He offers the last of his treats to his ride before the chocobo is led over to the next child.

“Come, Ignis,” says Algernon. “We’re going to the gift shop, and then we’ll eat lunch.”

The gift shop has so many chocobo-themed items, Prompto’s mouth stays open in a wide ‘O’ the entire time he squeezes through the crowds. One of the children he walks past pleads with his parents to buy him a chocobo sticker. He glances at the item in question. It is cute, but he would never work up the nerve to ask Algernon for anything.

Algernon points to a wall filled with plush toys. Prompto reaches out carefully and strokes the soft fabric of a medium-sized chocobo wearing a little bandana. 

“Do you like that one?” asks Algernon. He plucks another from the shelves. It’s about the same size, but it has a different design and looks as if it is sitting down with its legs stretched out before it. “Look at this adorable creature. What do you think, Ignis?”

“I like this one,” says Ignis, reaching for a purple chocobo wearing a black and gray leopard-print scarf.

“Hmm, how dapper. Let’s get him for you.”

Ignis lets out a pleased noise and hugs the new acquisition close to his chest. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Prompto, what about you? Do you have a favorite?”

_All of them_ , thinks Prompto, as he withdraws his fingers from the soft material and holds both hands to his chest. Every chocobo is perfect, how could he ever choose? But if he is to have one, what would he get? The one with the bandana? The bright green one? The fat chocobo that holds a gyshal green leaf in its mouth?

He looks to Ignis for help, and Ignis—perhaps thinking this is another moment Prompto is seeking reassurance that he won’t be in trouble for selecting one—nods. 

There is a fluffy yellow one, a traditional chocobo in every sense. As amazing as all the other interpretations are, Prompto reaches for it. He hesitates, and Algernon’s hands close around it instead.

“This one? Do you want it?”

“Please?” 

Algernon grins and escorts the two new chocobos to the register. Prompto and Ignis don’t stop hugging theirs on the air cab home, talking about what they’ll name them and their personalities. They race with their plushies through the lobby of the apartment and try to hum the chocobo theme song in the elevator. When Algernon whistles it over them, it starts up another attempt between the boys to try whistling. Prompto has been trying for weeks since Algernon first tried to teach them. He licks his lips and puts his tongue to his teeth, but all that comes out are huffs and puffs.

He might not accomplish any whistling on his birthday, but there are plenty of wonderful things that follow to make up for it.

As they eat lunch, Algernon sets out the chilled cake and places it on the table. Prompto nearly drops his sandwich in surprise. It is huge, as promised—double layered chocolate with frosting and crumbled cookie bits. It has his name in yellow across the top, circled in seven colorful candles.

“Wish for something when you blow them out!” says Algernon.

Prompto feels like he everything he has ever wanted. All he wishes, as he blows at the candles with all his might and watches the flames flicker feebly, is that he can stay with his family forever.

Algernon eventually helps him blow out the candles, and then makes him finish his lunch before anyone eats a slice of cake. Presents are then brought out. Three whole packages, one of them from Ignis. The one from his new brother is a personalized notebook that comes with a set of pens.

He tears into the ones from his new guardian and squeals joyfully when the first turns out to be a toolbox, complete with all the main items—a hammer, a wrench, screwdrivers, pliers, and a tape measure. The last gift is an apron just his size, with plenty of pockets for tools. His name is embroidered on the breast pocket. 

“Thank you!” Prompto lifts the strap over his head and flattens the apron across his stomach. He cannot wait to put to use all the knowledge he has obtained from books. 

The first thing he’ll make is a gift for Algernon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has been so nice about this story, thank you so much!

“ _Uncle!_ You’re not doing it right.”

Prompto looks up from the parts scattered across a sheet over the carpet to look at his brother. Ignis leans over the arm of Algernon’s chair, eyes zoned critically on the fabric under the sewing machine.

Ignis points at the seam. “You used the wrong stitch.”

Algernon narrows his eyes at Ignis as he sets the clothing item aside. “And just who are you to tell me what I’m doing wrong? This is your shirt I’m trying to fix, young man.”

Ignis grins in response to the mock sternness. “I can fix it myself.”

“What kind of caretaker would I be if I didn’t do these things?”

“What kind of caretaker would you be if my shirt ripped the moment I lifted my arm? Parents are supposed to _clothe_ their children, not set them up for future embarrassment.”

Algernon pushes back his chair and reaches for Ignis, who yelps and dodges out of arm’s reach. The two playfully chase each other around the living room, careful not to get too close to Prompto’s corner.

“Don’t step on anything!” Prompto is taking apart an old clock that belonged to Algernon’s father. It hasn’t worked in years and was buried at the bottom of the closet in what is now Prompto’s room. While clearing out some of the belongings to make room for his own, Prompto unearthed it. 

Algernon says if Prompto can get it working again, he’ll give him 500 gil. 

Prompto has managed to make things out of bibs and bobs, some of them nothing more than a few wind-up toys that humor the family for an evening before they donate them to children less fortunate. Prompto loves being able to give them something special. All those kids are in situations not dissimilar from what his once was back in Cartanica. But he has yet to make anything unique for his guardian since he started tinkering several months ago. 

The clock is only a patch job and not something from scratch, but if he can fix this, he can then fix Algernon’s father’s old music player. That has memories attached to it. Algernon has told him stories of joining his brother and sister by the fireplace during Insomnia winters, dancing with each other and their parents in the living room. 

Flames flicker on the other side of the grate not but a yard away from where Prompto sits. Algernon—having caught Ignis and thoroughly tickled him—plops down in front of a rocking chair by the fire. Ignis eases down onto the rug beside Prompto’s sheet, chin in hands and elbows on his knees. He watches Prompto. He has been doing that lately, even though he admits he only understands a little bit about mechanics and electronics.

Prompto works fast. Well, all the adults tell him so, but he doesn’t know what pace he’s supposed to go at when fixing things. Tools feel like home in his hands. Whenever he is lost, there are hundreds of books to help him find his way. He has spent a lot of time reading through them, and the words are slowly becoming easier. The charts only fail him because he starts to realize he can do better, but that has only been happening in the past few weeks. He received permission to pencil in adjustments and improvements in the margins of the books—Algernon says he would have thrown the books out eventually, had Prompto not taken an interest in them.

Algernon brings Prompto broken items and spare parts all the time. A malfunctioning communicator from his office was upgraded with a ten-years-younger replacement, and he set it on Prompto’s work table in his bedroom and said he was free to dismantle it for other uses. Another time, Algernon brought home a box of wires and tubes his coworker had sitting in the garage. 

Prompto puts them on a shelving unit in his room, next to the work table Algernon bought him. The room holds plenty of toys and charming items, but there is a corner dedicated to Prompto’s new hobby.

“How is it coming along?” asks Algernon, leaning over to inspect the clock’s progress. 

“Hope you have 500 gil,” responds Prompto cheekily.

“Goodness, you two are confident today. I can’t sew and have to pay my youngest to fix a clock for me!” Algernon lets out a long-suffering sigh and tilts his head back. “Well, even if you don’t need me anymore, I’ll always need the two of you.”

“We need you!” Ignis insists. “Who else will pay the bills?”

“Prompto, when he’s a genius inventor.”

“Child labor is _illegal_ , Uncle.”

“Hmph, aren’t you smart! Guess I’ll have to cancel my evil plans of setting up a factory and putting you two to work in it for one gil an hour.” Algernon wriggles his socked toes closer to the fireplace. “I’m proud of you both. You’re good boys.”

Prompto feels an itch across his cheekbones and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He dips his head against the crook of his arm to avoid anyone seeing. He isn’t used to being praised, but Algernon always seems to toss compliments at them both when they least expect it. Even Ignis’ face turns pink at Algernon’s words.

No one says anything after that, and Prompto glances down at the clock again. He replaces another rusted cog—the last one—with one of matching size. He plugs it into the outlet nearby and tinkers with the hands on the clock to match the time listed on the clock above the fireplace. He flips it on and watches as the seconds click. The noise draws the attention of Algernon and Ignis.

“Is that—?” Algernon leans over the arm of his rocking chair.

“Don’t know yet.” 

They wait until the minute hand moves. Prompto grins. All he has to do is screw the back panel back on the clock, and it is fully functional. That only takes a few minutes, and when it is done, Prompto sets it on the ground where it faces Algernon, wearing a triumphant grin.

“Time to pay up.”

~*~

Living with Algernon allows Prompto to meet new people. 

The chocolatier, Elisa, always gives them free samples when Algernon takes them as a reward for good behavior. Her daughter, Coctura, sometimes comes out on the sidewalk to play with Ignis and Prompto.

There is Randall, the seemingly-grumpy man at the weekend trade market who forges weapons and blows glass and makes it look easy. He always whispers information about the best deals in Prompto’s ear, allowing Prompto to stretch his allowance further. 

Then there is Weskham, who wears a monocle and tells them of his time working on Regis’ council as his closest advisor, before he left to run a bar in Accordo. The boys adore him. They hear all sorts of funny stories about the king’s childhood antics or awesome tales of how Weskham fought off ten coeurls with Clarus Amicitia. 

Weskham always brings gifts. Sometimes they’re small, like the miniature dog plushies that could stand on the tip of a finger. This time, he offers Ignis a baking kit and Prompto an electric screwdriver with all the bits he could ever want.

“Thank you!” Prompto throws his arms around Weskham’s legs and squeals.

Ignis doesn’t react with equal enthusiasm. He adjusts his glasses and stares at the miniature cake pans and mixing spoons and packets of fancy cake batter wordlessly.

“I thought you liked cake,” says Weskham, kneeling down beside Ignis’s chair. 

“I did.”

“He does,” says Prompto. “Maybe it reminds him he got in trouble last week?”

“Oh no, Ignis. What did you do?”

Algernon ruffles Ignis’ hair. “I had to leave for work on an emergency, and I left Ignis in charge when I couldn’t find anyone to watch the boys. I gave them money for lunch, but instead of using it on a meal, Ignis spent it all on cakes and candies.”

Prompto moans at the memory of the stomachache and throwing up that followed him all the way through the night and well into the morning after. He slides into his chair and sets his chin on the table, checking in on his brother. Ignis makes a face, too, even though his reaction to the overdose of sweets wasn’t as violent.

Weskham chuckles. “Oh no.”

“Oh, yes,” says Algernon. “Both of them had aching bellies, especially Prompto. His stomach is sensitive, and he takes medicine for it.”

“Al, you should have known better. He’s a child. Were we no different at this age?”

“I realized that a little too late. I might have been a bit harsh when I scolded Ignis for it.” Algernon pulls Ignis closer, into a hug. “Prompto begged me not to reprimand him.”

“I’m sorry, Ignis,” says Weskham, patting Ignis’ knee. “I have terrible timing. I simply wanted to give you something to make one of your favorite foods. Clarus told me something interesting. Did you know the prince has a sweet tooth?”

Ignis shakes his head.

“Yes, and he won’t eat his vegetables, either.”

“Ignis is very good about eating his,” says Algernon proudly. “Prompto, too. In fact, I can hardly persuade Prompto to eat dessert at all after last week.”

“I’m never eating sugar again.” Prompto scrunches up his nose and sighs miserably. The mere thought of ever going through that stomachache again makes his tummy hurt. 

“I think they learned their lesson about sweets,” says Weskham. 

“Oh, most definitely. And I’ve learned my lesson about putting too much responsibility on a ten-year-old.” 

“I won’t do it again,” promises Ignis, leaning in more against Algernon’s side. “I don’t want Prompto to get sick.”

“Speaking of Prompto…” Algernon grins at his son. “He fixed my father’s music player. I can now listen in on the radio and play albums.”

“Splendid!” Weskham holds out his hand for Prompto, who takes it. It always makes Prompto feel more like an adult, being able to shake someone’s hand.

“He has also agreed to sleep in Ignis’ room while you’re here. You can have his bed.”

“Oh, does that mean I get to sleep on chocobo sheets?”

“I’m afraid I’ve gone and put plain blue ones on his bed. He has taken his chocobo sheets to Ignis’ room, where they’ve already set up a fort to sleep in tonight. They stole all my spare pillows, too. All but one.” 

“I’ve brought my own,” says Weskham, gesturing toward the two suitcases and bag still sitting in the foyer. “It’s small, but with one of yours, I’ll manage.”

“We can give one back,” says Prompto.

Weskham gasps and puts his hand over his heart, fingers splayed. “And mess up your fort?” He shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t dream of it. Now why don’t you show me to your room, Prompto?”

Prompto tugs Weskham along by the hand to his bedroom while Ignis and Algernon gather up the suitcases. He stands proudly next to his shelves and workspace, which have been cleaned up for a guest. On any normal day, he has materials lying out on them, but this time, they’ve been stored away in containers Algernon bought him. Only a couple of projects sit on the desk, with a couple of small cases with parts tucked beside them.

“What are you working on?” asks Weskham, drawn to the projects. He bends over, fingers stroking his beard. Another thing Prompto loves about Weskham is that he never reaches out to touch or pick up any of Prompto’s projects. He respects everything from a distance. 

Prompto points to each one and names it with a description, but he passes over one and puts his finger to his lips, nodding in Ignis’ direction. He’ll explain it later, when his brother isn’t around for the present to be spoiled, but it is meant to become a clock made entirely from scratch. He thinks he can manage it now that he has fixed a few of them for various family friends.

“Someday I wanna build an airship,” says Prompto when he finishes. “But Algernon says I can’t fit that in the house, so I have to start with small stuff.”

“Are you sure, Al?” Weskham folds his arms across his chest and stares down Algernon, who puts his hands up in surrender. “Just a little one should be fine, don’t you agree?”

“And I suppose I should take out the outer wall so he can fly it, too,” says Algernon. “An eleven story drop with two children. The authorities will love that.”

“What is the purpose of a living room if it can’t become a hangar?”

“You two are silly,” notes Prompto, rolling his eyes at them both. He won’t admit it out loud, but he adores when they’re teasing back and forth. He doesn’t feel left out, the way he has with some of Algernon’s coworkers when they’re over for dinner. They always talk above Ignis and Prompto as if they aren’t there. If Weskham has something to say to Algernon where Ignis and Prompto can’t listen in, they discuss it at nighttime, in the library. 

He never looks down his nose at Prompto, not even for being from Niflheim. These days, few people even know, and most of them don’t care. Algernon may have had to tell the school because of paperwork, but when people ask, Algernon only ever says Prompto is adopted. He never tells anyone where he is from. 

And Prompto never hesitates when he says Insomnia—and Algernon’s apartment—are his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident with the candies and cakes is from Travelers in the Sky, but I thought I'd tie it into this story as well. Ignis loves his cake as a child! And as an adult, but he's smarter about it as he gets older. ;D
> 
> I know this says it has five chapters, but some events might require me to add one or two more chapters.

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out Onpanwa's art for this fic, she did such an amazing job. [It's a picture of Uncle Algernon tucking Ignis and Prompto into bed!](http://onpanwa.tumblr.com/post/167166986633/the-tiny-courageous-the-upcoming-prologue-for)


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